


In Service

by worstcommander



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Implied Flissa/Iron Bull
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 01:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12717285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worstcommander/pseuds/worstcommander
Summary: Flissa smells a spy.





	In Service

**Author's Note:**

  * For [commanderlurker (honeybee592)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybee592/gifts).



The first time Flissa sees the Iron Bull, she spills a drink on him. Well, on him, on the other patron bellied up to the bar, on the floor. She can't help it. He's so _tall_. She'd been filling tankards from the keg, not even turning at the new order for seven more, but then she _had_ turned, and- oh. Stupid clumsy fingers went out all at once, beer cascading over the bar like a waterfall.

She'd heard about him, the big man; whispers in Haven's only tavern, much as it is. It's her job to listen to whispers, after all, listen in case there's something needs passing on to Leliana. The qunari was a lot of whispers, him and the mercenaries he'd brought with him from the Storm Coast.

("Bigger than, I dunno- something BIG. Too big, right?" Sera's another one of the Herald's, always at the bar. Never a turned word for Flissa, though. She likes her. "And the _phhhsh_ , you know?" She'd mimed at something above her head that Flissa couldn't picture at the time, but now it made sense. That would be the horns. Bigger than big then, she'll agree.)

You'd suppose with the hole in the sky and such she'd be more used to things out of the ordinary, but here she was, gawking like a new barmaid on her first day off the farm.

The Iron Bull is very understanding. Less so the other man at the bar, the trader's apprentice. Breven, that's his name. Have to remember everyone who crosses the threshold by face and name, else she makes a fool of herself for not recognizing the Herald of Andraste.

Well, makes a fool of herself for not recognizing the Herald more than _once_.

"My apologies, messere, so sorry, I'll pour you another, just wait-"

"You had better! You've got me all wet!" He sputters and paws at his soaked tunic. "I'm not paying for that, you clumsy oaf."

Flissa's known all kinds, and as she fills the tankard again she watches not just the boy, but the qunari as well. Lots of well-intentioned men like to step in when a girl's got a bit of trouble, but in her experience they usually just make more of it. The Iron Bull, though, he doesn't. Just moves out of the way while Breven storms off to sulk at a table by the hearth. She'll have to give him a few more free, at least until he dries out.

"Nice guy, huh?" Oh, he's snuck up on her again. This time she manages not to douse him in beer. Man that big, all over kind of big, he shouldn't be able to lean like that across her bar without catching notice. He's half the bar on his own, arms resting on the stained wood. Voice pitched low enough for her ears only, rumbling under the noise of the crowd.

"I did spill his drink on him, messere. Don't think he was expecting that."

"Got a free beer out of it, didn't he? I wouldn't complain."

He gathers up all seven tankards in a sweep of his massive arm and drops some coins on the bar, turning back to the tavern's glow with what she thinks may be a wink. Hard to tell. With the eye.

It's only after he's rejoined his soldiers at the far end of the room with a rowdy cheer that she looks down and realizes the coins are gold.

* * *

The next time she sees him, she keeps the beer firmly in hand. It's a slow time of day, all the soldiers still at training and the forges ringing for their swords and such. Close as she gets to a break, a moment to prop her elbows on the bar and think about fishing out the bread and cheese she's set aside for a midday meal.

"How's the day treating you?"

There's the end of that break, then. Flissa fishes out the rag she's tucked into her apron and starts a good scrub, polishing away at rings that won't be faded any by the action. Always good to look busy for the paying customers, even if you aren't really accomplishing anything.

"Nothing to complain about, messere. And you?"

"Was just about to head back to camp for some grub. Cook makes this stew, it's, _ah_." He presses his fingers to his lips, eye closed in remembered bliss. "Not sure where he's finding the meat for it these days. Better not to ask." Game is getting spare for everyone. Too many people in Haven means too many hunters in the woods around Haven, and new mouths are pouring in every day. She's noticed it too at the evening meal. Lots of broth stretching too few vegetables. Her mouth waters at the thought of a stew full of meat, nug or crow or really anything slow enough to make it into the pot.

"Want some?"

There is nothing under the eyes of Andraste, Our Blessed Lady Bride of the Maker Above, that she wants more, but there's a catch coming, she can see it in the way he rolls his shoulders. He's got conspiracy written all over his face.

"You'll have to tell me how your day is really going, though."

Now how is she to answer that, and why is he asking? Spying for the Herald, perhaps. Making sure she's happy to serve the Inquisition, lest someone happier replaces her. Any word she places wrong is bound to end up in Leliana's ears, and then she'll be tossed out of Haven by that frowning Commander Cullen with only the clothes on her back.

"As I said," she replies, "nothing to complain about." A smile, warm and friendly, learned on her very first day in her very first tavern, before she'd learned to tell the taps apart or to sew a pocket inside her apron for hiding tips.

"Look, I'm not-" The Iron Bull sighs. "I'm not trying to get anything out of you. Chargers have plenty of stew. Would be nice to share it with someone who talks to me like a person instead of a dancing bear."

"No one would dare," she gasps, the words spilling out before she realizes her mistake, but the man in front of her just laughs, his belly shaking.

"You'd be surprised."

So she tells him, one eye on the door as if she's doing something secret. She tells him that her feet hurt and her back aches, that the floor of the tavern is hard and cold and she can't lay down to sleep until she's swept the last drunk off of it. Every word feels lighter, as if she's the rag in her hands instead of the one wringing it over the bucket. The qunari listens and he doesn't interrupt, until she's wrung out every last complaint and almost - _almost_ \- shaken the feeling that Leliana's hidden herself behind a keg, ready to pop out at any moment and dismiss her.

"See? Feels better, doesn't it?"

"Messere, the Iron-"

"Just Bull."

"Bull, then." Brave, she leans back over the bar, matching him in posture if not quite in magnitude. "I still don't know why you'd want to know about me." He's not a spy, perhaps, but he's still a man, and there's not a scrap of gossip in Haven that doesn't pass through her tavern. The Iron Bull has a reputation most impressive.

He's probably a fine warrior, too.

That he could be seeking some other manner of her company than conversation is a thought that fills her with less dread somehow than it would have when he walked into the tavern. At least in Haven, the customers don't assume she's on the menu, and though she really barely knows the man, she doesn't think she'd find his hand on her arse unless she had asked it there in the first place. That's a prospect that sets her heart skipping just a bit, blood flushing her cheeks. It's been ages and he's really quite rugged, now that she's stopped tossing drinks overboard at the height of him. And those rumors, well... the rumors have been very kind.

"See, back home..." He trails off, as if he meant to say one thing and has decided on another. "Where I'm from, everyone's job is important. Soldier, priest, stableboy. No matter what you're doing, you're respected for it. Everyone is a piece of the whole, even if that piece is small. Every piece is needed."

"So everyone is happy to work, then?"

"Nah." He waves a big hand dismissively, and this time she fears it's him who will end up drenching the bar. She scoots his tankard farther away. "They're still people. Feet still ache like everyone else's after a long day. The difference is there, no one acts like the person serving the beer is below the wall they're pissing off of."

"Or the mercenary captain," she ventures. It earns her a laugh.

"Yeah, or the big scary merc captain saving all their asses." Bull pushes away from the bar, watching the first swell of the evening rush begin trickle in through the doors. "Thanks, Flissa. I still owe you one."

When he returns, the stew is exactly as he promised, thick and rich and studded with a meat she thinks she might almost recognize. With the bowl comes an offering, a small sealed pot that seems even smaller in the Iron Bull's wide palm.

"Stitches makes this salve. Smells like death, but there's nothing better for sore feet. Thought you might like some." Flissa reaches for the gift, wondering. The stew had been more than payment, this seems almost robbery. His hand curls inward just a hair, and she raises her head to find him looking down at her with a wide grin. "Of course, if you'd like someone to rub it in for you..."

The blush blooms again, and with it a heat somewhere in reaches a bit lower than her cheeks. All of Haven's gossip comes through her tavern, of course.

High time some started here.


End file.
